


Deeper Than Knives, A Beating Heart

by goldenforestprince



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anger, Angry Bucky Barnes, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Bucky Barnes, Blood Loss, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Declarations Of Love, Electrocution, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Aid, Fist Fights, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gunshot Wounds, Happy Ending, Helpful Tony Stark, Holding Hands, Hospitals, Hugs, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Kissing, Love Confessions, Loyalty, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medical Expert Clint Barton, Medical Procedures, Missions Gone Wrong, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Navigational Expert Bucky Barnes, Near Death Experiences, Post-Serum, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Reunions, Self-Sacrificing Steve Rogers, Stabbing, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Swears, Stubborn Bucky Barnes, Stubborn Steve Rogers, Sunsets, Supportive Clint Barton, Supportive Natasha Romanov, Supportive Tony Stark, Team Feels, Team as Family, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Trust, Trust Issues, Violence, Waiting Rooms, because as if they're anything else let's be real here, safe house, supportive Thor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 10:14:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11553066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenforestprince/pseuds/goldenforestprince
Summary: The mission that Steve and Bucky are on gets shot to hell when Bucky gets seriously injured and they need to get out of there, stat. Even with the Avengers acting fast and doing what they can to save him, it's up in the air as to whether Bucky will survive the hit. And Steve doesn't know what he's going to do if Bucky doesn't walk out that door.Or, Steve learns that friends are the family you choose, and that his teammates are so much more than just that. Especially Bucky.





	Deeper Than Knives, A Beating Heart

Steve clutched his bleeding stomach as he and Bucky headed through the woods to the safe house. He wanted to explain to Bucky why he had acted the way he did - to protect his sorry ass, because he’d be dead if Steve hadn’t taken that bullet - but the look on Bucky’s face was absolutely thunderous, and he thought better of it. Bucky would probably kill Steve himself at this point if he stepped a single toe out of line.

Steve would never get used to the stark difference in personality between when Bucky was purely himself, and when he slipped into the influence of the Winter Soldier. The Soldier’s rage was ice cold, calculated and merciless, and Bucky’s was pure, white hot rage able to blast through anything in its path. And right now that blood-boiling fury was aimed at Steve.

He knew Bucky would never hurt him - you don’t get through World War II alive without that kind of trust - but Steve didn’t yet know the extent that Bucky’s anger would go. His old friend had only been back for a couple of months since the incident in Washington, and with the ceaseless insistence that only Bucky was capable of, had been permitted to join Steve on missions, if only to watch the Avenger’s back. Fury had reluctantly permitted Bucky to act as tagalong, and Steve had a sneaking suspicion that it was only because Bucky was one of the only men who could hold Fury’s glare without so much as a flinch when the subject had been broached.

If Steve were being honest, before the war had changed them both, he had only seen Bucky truly furious enough to lose his cocky composure twice in his entire life, and both times had been because Steve’s life was on the line. Once had been because a doctor had mixed up prescriptions and had given him something far too concentrated for his stomach ulcers to handle, which had him sleepless and throwing up blood for a week. If Steve hadn’t been too busy cradling his stomach and leaning over the toilet, he’d have been certain that Bucky was one wrong word away from storming back to the hospital and decking the doctor right in the side of the head. Silence had been better both for the brunet and for Steve’s aching stomach.

The other time, though, had been Steve’s own doing. He had been walking home one afternoon from the pier, after bringing Bucky his forgotten lunch, and had seen a group of jocks harassing a quiet young woman. They were across the street from him, but heading in the same direction, and Steve could here every single word shouted from their vulgar mouths. From the stiff posture the woman held, Steve knew that she was beyond terrified, and he crossed the street behind the group of boys, calling out for them to leave her alone. They had turned back, grinning cruelly when they saw that the woman’s would-be saviour was half their size, and without any muscle to go with it.

They had beaten Steve within an inch of his life. Bucky had found Steve that evening, sitting leaning against the wall in the rough brick wall in the alleyway behind their home to avoid tracking in blood. Steve had barely been able to breathe through the pain, never mind the asthma attacks it had caused during the time it took for Bucky to get back after work. He had asked Steve who did it, but the blond just gave some noncommittal answer, hoping that Bucky would drop the issue. But Bucky’s eyes had clouded over with rage and the determination of purpose, and he refused to say a word after that. Steve had gotten hurt in fights before, but this had been a new extreme, and with his already frail immune system, they both knew that this could be what killed him. But Bucky would never let Steve die on his watch, not until he had exhausted every possibility first.

Against Steve’s insistent pleading that he was fine, Bucky dragged him to the doctor, explaining what happened in as few words as possible, as if he couldn’t palate it himself. When Steve was done with the check-up, it was nothing short of impressive that he was still able to stand in his condition. Broken ribs, a concussion, internal bleeding, lips and eyes that were matching black and blue, and a nasty assortment of cuts, scrapes and bruises decorated all over his body. It was a good thing that Bucky wasn’t in the room with him when the doctor listed them all off, because in his foul mood, it would only add more fuel to the fire. But when Steve came out of the office, Bucky wasn’t there, and when he was ushered to one of the many rooms to get rest and heal up, Bucky still hadn’t met up with him. Steve chewed his lip, wondering if this was the time that he had taken things too far for his friend to forgive him.

Seconds had turned into minutes, which turned into hours, and still with no sign of Bucky. With nothing to keep his mind occupied, all Steve could do was chew his lip to shreds and worry restlessly as to his friend’s whereabouts. Finally, halfway through the night, Bucky slipped into the curtained hospital room and dropped heavily on the guest chair. How he had gotten past the secretary and security after visiting hours were over, Steve couldn’t have guessed. 

Steve knew better than to say anything as he took in Bucky’s appearance, squinting sidelong to make his eyes appear shut. While there were few signs of evidence as to where he’d been, Steve knew what to look for. Messy, sweaty hair, a darkly growing bruise around his neck, and a posture that favored his left side. Any other signs were hidden under clothing, and all Steve could do was hope they hadn’t gotten him too badly. But when he glanced down to knuckles that were shredded to nothing, he knew that whatever those boys had received had been a hundred times worse.

Steve would have thanked Bucky, but it only would have been an admission of how bad this time really had been, and it was better not owning up to that just yet. Bucky’s face was more settled than it had been before, but there was no denying the underlying rage that was still held there. Steve had just been thankful that Bucky was willing to protect his sorry, scrawny ass. There weren’t many people in Brooklyn who cared about the bone-thin, chronically ill blond, but Steve thanked his lucky stars that Bucky had always been there for him when things got bad.

Now though, running through a foggy forest seventy years and two serum doses later, Steve wasn’t so sure that Bucky wouldn’t beat him to a pulp for taking that bullet, now that they both knew he could take it and live. A bullet was a bullet, serum or no, and the blood that poured from his side attested to that. As the pair weaved through the trees, the incoming bullets sprayed bark off of trees inches away from them, but the distance between the projectiles and themselves became more and more as they escaped the hail of gunfire.

They were deep into the forest, in an area Steve would never be able to find his way out of by himself. But Bucky had led them to this safe house, and Steve trusted the brunet’s navigational skills to get them out of there once this mess cleared up. Even when they were tykes, Bucky had always been the boy scout, while Steve had preferred a more domestic lifestyle – at least, until the war had caught up to him. Steve carefully watched Bucky, who kept his eyes locked to the landscape in front of him as he strode onwards, and Steve eagerly kept pace or he’d be running the risk of getting lost. Navigator or not, he wasn’t overly confident that Bucky wouldn’t leave him behind with the state he was in.

But Bucky refused to look in Steve’s direction - or worse, at the blood - and wouldn’t answer anything Steve said, either. The Avenger had long since given up trying to spark any conversation, not wanting to press his luck. He doubted even Natasha would be able to find his dead body out here, and it wasn’t like Bucky would have to try very hard to make it happen, Steve thought darkly as he glanced down at the wound.

Finally, after an eternity of silence had dragged on, Bucky abruptly changed his course, heading south down a steep hill. Confused, Steve followed, and was surprised to see an old shack neatly tucked between the hill and a dense stand of trees. He marveled at the brilliance of it; the small building was completely hidden from view unless it was approached specifically by this direction, and the mossy roof especially helped to camouflage it into the scenery. 

Steve hadn’t realized he’d said this out loud until Bucky replied with a low growl of thanks. Steve gaped, not expecting Bucky to be the one to have built it, but he could definitely believe that his friend was resourceful enough to have something planned for such a situation. Still, Steve cringed; he could practically see Bucky’s upper lip lift with the snarl when he spoke. Bucky approached the entrance and kicked the door open, which promptly ripped off the rusted hinges and went flying into the back wall. Steve made a face. Surely that did nothing to help Bucky’s sour mood. The blond quietly offered to fix it later, and was rewarded with little more than an impatient, incredulous scowl.

Steve followed the brunet in and inspected the room: three handmade cots, a steel shelving unit brimming with dusty medical supplies, and a cupboard with smashed glass that Steve guessed had once held enough rations to feed a small troop, but some lucky looters had reduced the stockpile to barely half a shelf. Steve gingerly sat himself in one of the cots, placing himself as far away as possible from where Bucky stood seething, careful to keep the wound covered and out of view.

When Bucky said nothing, Steve leaned back against the wall, shifting in an effort to attain some measure of comfort. The surrounding scenery had begun to darken as the afternoon waned, and if Bucky was going to give him the silent treatment, Steve was in for a long night. But after a few minutes of Bucky pretending to take note of the available supplies – Steve noticed that he wasn’t quite as convincing at playing it cool as he had been before the war; he was too antsy now to pull it off – the ex-assassin stomped over to where Steve sat, crowding the blond and leaving no room for question.

“Lemme see it.” 

It wasn’t an argument, but Steve didn’t let that stop him. “It’s fine. It’s already starting to heal.”

Bucky ground his teeth together. Really, he should have expected the Rogers stubborn iron will. “We both know how bad it is. Now turn over and let me see the damn thing.”

Steve reluctantly turned and took the pressure off the wound. Immediately, the flow of blood increased, and Bucky gave another growl. He lifted a scalpel, and Steve half cringed, unsure if it was going to be sunk into somewhere important, until Bucky tugged on the navy blue uniform and shredded through the blood-soaked kevlar that blocked the wound from view. He assessed the wound, glancing between the raw flesh and the medical supplies he had available, and pulled out some rusty forceps. Steve eyed the tool warily, not at all confident about what would come next.

Bucky saw the reflex, and his jaw tightened. “It needs to come out. With how fast you heal, we don’t have long before it heals over and gets infected to hell and back.”

And of course, as soon as Bucky had cut and prepared the gauze was when the first gunshot crashed the window into an explosion of splintered glass. The two men looked to the window as if it had done that itself, then Bucky swore and got to work as quickly as he could. With his metal hand, he pulled apart the flaps of skin as gently as he could, and then dug in forcefully with the forceps. Steve cried out in pain, then let out a shaky breath, and within moments, the bullet clattered against the metal medical tray. The steel leg of the cot didn't escape Steve's grip quite so easily. Bucky gave him an unimpressed look that reeked of “Now try to avoid another bullet this time, punk,” then hastily wrapped the gauze around Steve’s torso, tying the material tightly in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

“We’ll need to do more about it later,” Bucky grumbled, “but right now, we’ve got company to deal with.”

Steve nodded firmly. With the precious seconds they had, Steve grabbed the shield from behind him as Bucky reloaded his rifle. Steve positioned himself carefully by the edge of the window, opposite the brunet. From just out of sight, Bucky had enough of a vantage point that he could clip one of the oncoming agents as he was aiming for Steve, and he growled at the blond to _“get the hell away from the window or you’ll be shot again, you idiot.”_

As Bucky was lining up his sights to take out the last one, bullets sprayed through the thin wood of the walls, and five more heavily-armed agents piled into the one-room shelter. They were now outnumbered, and with Steve already heavily injured. Acting on instinct, Bucky ducked from the bullets and whirled to get the two agents to his left between the eyes. In the time that took, one of them had met Steve’s shield with a baton. Normally Bucky wouldn’t have so much as flinched – Steve had walked away from enough fights, even before the serum – but seeing a shockwave of blue ripple through the shield and up into the blond’s arm made him hesitate long enough for one of them to do the same to Bucky’s metal limb. He felt the pulsing agony travel up into his body and set his blood on fire, and fell to one knee, groaning low as his muscles seized. His eyes stayed fixed on Steve, who with eyes shut tight and face contorted in agony, was taking the hit far worse than he was. Hydra had trained Bucky to block out any pain inflicted upon him, but Steve had gotten no such introduction to torture tactics, and two of the three men remaining were offering an uninterrupted flow of electricity to Steve’s body, causing the Avenger’s body to convulse wildly.

Rage tightened in Bucky’s gut. He knew that if he didn’t act quickly, things were going to escalate, and not in their favor. But nobody would get the pleasure of taking down Captain America, not while the Winter Soldier still drew breath. He slammed his jaw shut, shaking muscles straining as he fought his way back to standing. His assailant took note, jumping back and raising the baton once more, but before he could make the swing, Bucky had grabbed the business end of it and thrown it across the room, releasing it quickly before his convulsing hand could drop it close enough for the agent to reach.

The agent took another step back as Bucky faced him. He pinned the man with a cold, merciless stare. Every branch of Hydra had heard of his prowess by now, knowing him not to be just another ghost story they tell the newbies, but whatever the logo on their uniform was, these guys weren’t Hydra. Whoever these idiots were, they had threatened the Winter Soldier’s most trusted ally, and now they had the Winter Soldier’s untempered wrath aimed directly at them. Bucky wanted to make it slow, painful, but with Steve already fighting to remain conscious, he knew he didn’t have that luxury.

The agent saw his expression, and jumped back so fast that his heel hit the wall and nearly caused him to fall over. He lifted his gun and gave a shout to the others, only to be cut off by a bullet splitting his skull apart. Bucky turned the rifle onto the other two agents. Their attention was now divided between the two super soldiers, uncertain which required their attention more, and one of them barked a desperate command in a language Bucky distantly recognized.

But before Bucky could decipher the meaning, a bullet tore through the meat of his right shoulder. Blood sprayed out across the agent who had given the command. Bucky’s eyes widened, his jaw falling open in shock as the pain bloomed through the muscle, watching the blood mist outwards as if it were not his own. Belatedly, he realized that in his haste to keep the intruders off of Steve, he had forgotten about the sole remaining agent who had been heading downhill towards the window behind them. His right arm all but useless, the rifle slipped from his loosened grip, swinging by his side.

Bucky hardly felt the pain. He couldn’t help Steve if he was dead. And more than that, he had to stop these agents before they did the same thing to Steve. He whipped around to see where the man outside was positioned, then reached out with his metal arm to grab the agent who seemed to be in charge and threw him out the window. He didn’t stop to hear the reaction, as the sole remaining agent had now lifted his own rifle towards the brunet.

With a snarl, Bucky stepped forward and crushed the barrel of the rifle beneath his vibranium fist. The man’s gaze shot downwards, shocked, then looked up to see a gleam of metal before the knife sunk deep into his throat. Twitching and gurgling, he sunk to the floor beside Steve’s shaking form. Bucky tried hard not to notice how Steve’s eyes were now closed, muscles still spasming. With the threat neutralized, Bucky whirled to see the condition of the two remaining agents.

One of them was already raising his sights, gaze trained on Bucky. But Bucky had had damn _enough_ of being shot at for one day. Flesh arm dangling uselessly beside him, Bucky used his metal arm to hoist himself out the window before the man could so much as blink. The brunet’s boot crashed into the man’s throat, crushing the soft cartilage that lay underneath, just as the last agent managed to slip a slender dagger between Bucky’s ribs. Bucky turned, feeling the blade shift deeper with the motion. He’d had enough of the bullshit. The assassin ripped the knife from his side, and sunk it into the man’s eye, deep enough that he felt the bone behind the socket give way to the steel.

Bucky hardly had time to celebrate, however, because back in the hut, he heard a crash. He rushed back into the shelter. The scene would have been laughable if Steve wasn’t lying in a pool of his own blood. The agent, with the knife still lodged in his throat, had _apparently_ tried to go after Steve one more time, and had _apparently_ failed, seeing as how the glass panes of the cabinet now rained down on him in razor sharp shards. To Bucky’s immense relief, the man didn’t so much as give a twitch from the new position.

And Steve was still alive. That had to count for something. Bucky lowered himself gingerly to one knee, still not allowing himself to put any signs of pain on display, lest Steve see the state he was truly in. On his back, the Avenger’s eyes were open now, baby blues meeting Bucky’s steely grays, though his jaw remained a firm, tense line. But within moments, Steve’s eyes had rolled back into his head and his neck gave a violent jerk before the blond ground his teeth together and focused on getting his muscles under control, fighting past the lingering shocks still traveling through his system.

Bucky said nothing at first, eyes sharp with focus and worry, watching Steve fight to get his body back under control. “Hey, you’re ok,” Bucky murmured, hoping Steve wouldn’t notice the way his voice came out as a slow wheeze, deep in his throat. The knife the agent had jabbed him with had punctured a lung, and he could already feel the blood beginning to pool in the soft tissue. But he hardly gave it a second thought, fighting back a cough even as the burning in his lungs screamed in protest. He would worry about that when he knew that Steve was going to be alright.

The brunet reached out with his metal arm to caress Steve’s cheek. The blond still hadn’t said a word, and Bucky didn’t know if he could just yet, or if the current was still lingering in his diaphragm. But the blond let out a loose, shaky breath, eyes opening once more to fall on Bucky’s face. The relieved, even tender, look lingered for a moment before Steve really took in Bucky’s pallid complexion and rigid posture, and then he was sitting up in an instant, his own injuries long forgotten.

“Bucky.” Steve’s look was fierce, both a worried question and a silent command to tell him where he was injured, and how. The only time Bucky ever remembered seeing a look like that was when Steve had rescued him from the Hydra base during the war, and it told of oceans of unspoken vengeance. The Hydra base had ended up in flames. Bucky figured that if he didn’t walk away from this, the same thing would happen somewhere else once Steve was let loose. It would have felt refreshing for Bucky to see that look again, had it not become more and more difficult to pull in air with each passing breath.

Bucky met Steve’s gaze and said nothing. He told himself it was because he didn’t want Steve to worry, as futile as that was, but the truth was that it would have hurt like hell to speak past the fluid in his lungs, and he was feeling nauseated enough as it was. Panic was settling in nicely in his chest; at least he would suffocate on his own blood in front of the only man he had ever loved.

Which might have counted for something. If Bucky had ever told him.

Steve’s eyes traveled downwards, expression growing cold at the missing chunk of flesh where the tendon in Bucky’s shoulder used to be, then down to his limp arm, and finally to the pool of blood staining the side the ex-assassin’s uniform. The blond knew that had his own wound been an inch higher, it would have penetrated his lung, and understanding hit him like a brick. His gaze flew back up to Bucky’s, eyes wide, and only then pieced together the stab wound with the deep wheeze that rolled wetly inside Bucky’s chest, becoming louder by the minute.

Steve was on his feet in an instant, only distantly wincing at the wound in his side. He rushed to the other side of the room, tearing through the pack to find the com. “Natasha, Clint, do you read? I need an evac _now._ I-I think Bucky’s lung has been punctured.” His voice was a near shout, full of the authority his rank held but marred by anger that would be uncharacteristic enough for the other end to know exactly how serious the issue was. Bucky could hear Steve’s voice trembling ever so slightly, low enough that it would be imperceptible from the other end of the com. Bucky doubted that even he was meant to hear it, but still he heard the silent plea of _“I don’t know what to do”_ that would never be voiced out loud, only perceptible after spending near to his entire life with the blond.

Bucky closed his eyes and resigned himself to his fate. He had tried to do some good in the world, after all the pain he’d caused, and he just hoped that it had been enough. He was ready for the pain to end.

The com came to life in a buzz of static. It was Tony’s voice instead of those Steve had called. “Yeah, Cap, read you loud and clear. No time for a chopper, but I’ll be there in ten. That enough time?”

Steve hesitated, and swallowed thickly. It wouldn’t be an elegant extraction, but it was something. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Bucky saw Steve’s jaw tense, and a hand reach up to run through disheveled hair, before he replied, far too harshly in Bucky’s opinion, “For _fuck’s sake,_ Stark, Make it five.”

For once, Stark didn’t bite back. “In five, then.” The com buzzed with static, and then fell silent.

Steve turned around, eyes glazing over with a mixture of anger and terror that Bucky knew all too well. Of course, it was then that Bucky had poor timing, leaning forward to cough up far, far too much blood. The com came alive once more and another voice sounded through the static. “Listen,” came Clint’s worried voice, and Steve froze instantly, focusing all his attention on the words. “You want to get something sharp, aim it just off to the side – below the ribs, but not too low; don’t hit an organ – and jab it in there good. You have some time, but air’s gotta get back in that lung before Stark gets there. You read me?”

Steve nodded absently, forgetting that the archer couldn’t see him. “Alright,” he muttered, tossing the com to the floor. He tore through the supplies in the cabinet and on the medical tray, settling on what he hoped was the least rusty scalpel within thirty miles. As he rifled through the contents, he barely registered Clint calling through to him on the com. “Don’t worry, Buck,” Steve said tightly as he knelt down in front of the assassin. “It’s gonna hurt like a son of a bitch, but we’re gonna fix you up. You’re gonna walk out of here. I promise.”

Bucky’s head lolled back against the wall, and his gaze pulled up loosely to meet Steve’s. There was no way Steve could make good on that promise. Bucky had suffered a myriad of injuries at the hands of Hydra, and he knew that the chances were low that he was walking away from this, even if they managed to get him into a hospital in time. His eyes searched Steve’s face, trying to get him to understand that, but as he sat up, the shift in angle rewarded him with another surge of burning in his lungs that brought up enough blood that it splashed against the concrete floor.

Steve’s eyes locked to the blood that stained the floor. The blond fought to keep his expression unreadable, but Bucky could see the fear darkening his features as the blond stared at the growing pool. Steve took a shaky breath determination flashing in his eyes. “Alright, you ready?” he asked, steeling himself more than expecting Bucky to reply. His grip on the scalpel tightened as Bucky gave a strained nod.

Steve lined up the blade just underneath Bucky’s bottom rib, as Clint had instructed. He took a steadying breath. “Ready, pal?” Then he was counting. “Three, two-” and then the Avenger slammed the heel of his palm into the scalpel’s handle. Without the distraction of the battle, Bucky felt every inch that the scalpel traveled beneath his skin. The pain was blinding, but it wasn’t without effect, as the air rushed back into Bucky’s lung instantly. He took a deeply gratifying breath before hacking up more of the blood, but the hammering in his heart finally began to ebb, and while he still struggled to draw breath, his body wasn’t screaming for air nearly as much. Bucky nearly sobbed in relief.

“Steve!” A call was heard from just outside the shelter, and the blond’s head whipped up. In an instant, the Avenger was up and blocking the door where Tony stood, protective nature still in overdrive. Iron Man’s helmet pulled away from his face to reveal a frown, dark eyes lingering on the crimson-stained gauze wrapped around Steve's side. “Don't know if you've noticed, but you’re hurt, too, Cap,” Stark said in a suspicious tone. Bucky could appreciate Tony's apprehension that Steve hadn’t told his team the extent of the situation. Had he not been struggling just to breathe, he would have outright laughed.

“Later, Tony,” Steve warned. “Just get him the hell out of here.”

Tony hesitated, just for a moment, considering the severity of the situation. Steve was clutching his side, but clearly walking and talking, while Bucky lay half unconscious in a pool of his own blood. “Yeah, sounds good.” Without preamble of greeting, Stark stepped over the bodies of the agents, giving Steve a questioning look as he did, and hoisted Bucky up, supporting his shoulders and knees as gently as he could in a metal suit. To his credit, Stark was clearly trying to jostle the wound as little as possible. 

“Alright, big guy, let’s get you up to see Helen. She’ll patch you right up.” He then turned to Steve, lips quirking up into an unconvincing smirk. “Romanoff and Katniss are on their way. Give a holler if anything happens before then.” Stark was trying to hide his worry beneath a layer of humor, but even Bucky had spent enough time with the billionaire to know how concerned he was. He and Stark had never seen eye to eye - to say the least - and he was touched by the effort that was being put in to help him. Especially after what he had done to Tony.

The repulsors sent charred soil flying as Stark got liftoff, suit barely straining under the weight of the super soldier. Stark now had Captain America’s closest friend tucked carefully in his arms, ascending past the canopy of the forest. Steve knew that realistically, nothing would happen, but just in case, he still told Barton and Romanoff not to bother coming to get him. Then, running faster than he ever had in his life, Steve followed Iron Man, a red and gold beacon against the cloudy sky, right back to the Avengers tower.

* * *

Steve had been sitting in the waiting room for seventeen hours. Throughout the night, into the morning, and into the afternoon, he didn’t move an inch from the chair that faced the doorway they had carted Bucky past. Every now and then, a new face would emerge from the main hospital wing down the hall, offering him food or rest, and every time, he would decline and shift his gaze back to the door in front of him. Most of them offered words of pity or comfort, and he had snapped at each of them, instantly regretting it. It was only when Natasha came by that he stopped answering at all, letting her focus on the communication instead.

The redhead hadn’t said a word to him since she arrived. Her entrance had only been marked by a duck of the head and a smile that would have been no more than a twitch if you didn’t know her. She had pulled up a chair beside him, and relaxed loosely against the wall with a dog-eared paperback – a stark contrast to Steve’s shoulders, whose shoulders held more growing tension by the hour.

Thor dropped by once, to offer words of reassurance, and when Steve snapped at him he just laughed. Even Natasha smiled at the exchange. “You are not the first to worry for an injured brother,” Thor had said kindly, a reminder that made Steve finally reconsider his words. But Thor continued, undeterred. “Barnes is an excellent fighter, and he has survived through many trials already. He will make it through this one, I assure you.”

That was the first time Steve’s expression fell. “Yeah. You’re right,” he said quietly, voice trembling. Thor clapped him on the shoulder and gave a squeeze, and the moment the Asgardian was out of sight, Steve’s mask was back in place.

Tony and Clint had stopped by, as well. Neither started by trying to convince him that Bucky would make it, and for that, Steve was grateful. It was nice to have a bit of grounding realism amongst the waves of what felt like useless optimism. Bucky would either walk out of that room or wouldn’t, no matter how Steve felt about the situation. It was out of his control. Clint raised an eyebrow at Steve’s hardening expression, wordlessly handing him a cup of coffee and a bagel from a coffee shop down the street that he knew Steve loved, and Tony began to prattle on about who this new organization might be.

“I had Jarvis do some digging. Turns out that Hydra has a new branch, one that’s well trained and nastier than ever. It’s pretty underground – enough that even half their own guys don’t know about it – but from what I can tell, Rumlow was part of it too, so it would make sense that they would be trying to get Terminator back on their side. I’m guessing they didn’t like getting shot by their own science project very much.”

Steve would have snapped at him for the comment, but he knew that Tony meant well. He was only hiding behind the humor to mask his own concern. Stark’s words ran through his mind, and while they probably should have worried him further – what if Hydra comes after Bucky again? – it brought him comfort instead, to know that his friends were looking into the issue at hand while letting him shoulder the biggest issue on his own. Steve didn’t need anything else to worry about. Steve gave an absent nod, lifting the coffee in thanks to them, and found his words of gratitude caught in his throat.

Finally, twelve hours in, Natasha had put down the book and turned to face Steve. He knew what was coming, and when azure eyes met verdant, each pair hardened, unyielding. “Sleep,” she said tiredly, voice belying the exhaustion her eyes didn’t show. Steve hadn’t gotten a wink since before this mission, two days ago, and he knew she had the right of it. The only thing that convinced him to give a half-hearted attempt at rest was knowing that she would stay there until he returned, which meant that she'd keep him updated if anything changed, but that she wouldn't get any rest herself either, and that was finally enough to send Steve back to his floor.

Two hours later, though, he was back, and Natasha sighed into her paperback but said nothing. She had to give him credit for trying. She hadn’t done much better when Clint had been bleeding out in Budapest, and she would respect Steve’s choice in such a personal matter, even if it boiled down to restlessness and fear. She stood, stretching, and without a word she let him be, placing a hand gently on his forearm as she passed. For Natasha, it was as telling as if she had broken down in tears in front of him, and Steve had sighed in turn and told her not to worry. She turned and gave him a gentle but annoyed look, one he didn’t even have to see to know it said, _“I’m not the one you should be worrying about, Rogers.”_

And once again, Steve Rogers was alone, with no idea if Bucky would be alive by the end of it.

It seemed like an eternity had passed when Dr. Banner finally emerged from the doorway just next to the one Steve’s gaze was affixed to. He poked his head into the hallway, reaching up to adjust his glasses. “Steve? He’s awake,” he said kindly, motioning for the blond to follow.

 _Bucky was alive._ Steve was up before Banner could finish speaking, and he followed Bruce down a hallway lit with painfully bright fluorescent bulbs, until they turned into a second waiting room. Behind the glass, there was Bucky beside a hospital bed that had been wheeled in for him for the surgery. He was standing donned in a speckled hospital gown and fuming, looming over the three doctors present, one of which was an unflinching Helen Cho. It felt so much more real for Steve to see him with his own two eyes. Bucky was going to be ok.

Dr. Banner cleared his throat awkwardly, and when Steve looked over, he saw Bruce’s features were open, apologetic even. “He insisted on seeing you the instant he opened his eyes,” the older man chuckled. But then the smile in Bruce’s eyes quietened, and the unreadable expression of Dr. Banner had replaced it once more. “But if he doesn’t calm down, he’s going to open his wounds again. He isn’t listening to our doctors; he’s insisting on seeing you before he cooperates.”

Steve nodded stiffly at the unasked question, biting back a laugh at Banner’s slip-up with the _again._ “I’ll handle it.” Idly, he wondered how much anesthesia they’d had to burn through to get Bucky to cooperate for even this long. No wonder it had taken seventeen hours to finally sew him up. The man in question was standing, and flailing angrily, frustration evident in his rigid posture and the way he poked at one of the doctors with his flesh arm. Steve was relieved to see that it was healed as well, even if it was heavily scarred. Steve gave a chuckle. It was a miracle the brunet didn’t just wake up and try to do the surgery himself with a sewing needle. Steve had to hand it to the doctors; if they could keep Bucky knocked out long enough to patch him up, they clearly knew what they were doing.

Steve’s gaze shifted back to the one-way glass to see that Bucky’s eyes had snapped in his direction, gaze narrowed and scanning the pane where he stood. For an instant, their eyes met, and Steve thought he saw a flash of fear before Bucky’s gaze trailed off. Steve knew that Bucky couldn’t see him, but as Dr. Banner thanked him and walked away, he still didn’t know how Bucky would react upon seeing him. Fury had already been keeping on a tight leash since the last mission, when a particularly rough hit to Steve’s head had sent Bucky into a mess of babbling Russian, and he hadn’t let anyone in Steve’s hospital room until Natasha had spoken to him, and gotten him to calm down enough to revert back to English. Now, Steve doubted Fury would be very pleased to hear that Bucky was giving the doctors a hard time – even in it was in English this time – especially while Steve’s own wound remained untended.

Steve slowly pushed open the door. Bucky’s eyes locked to his instantly. At first, neither of them moved. The brunet hesitated only for a moment before nearly shoving the doctors out of the way and practically leaped onto Steve, arms surrounding him in a tight squeeze. Bucky wasn’t reaching up to hit him, so he supposed this was a decent alternative. Bucky’s hold tightened, and Steve’s throat constricted with emotion, and he nearly let out a sob. Bucky was alive, and safe, and back in his arms. In a hundred years, he wouldn’t ask for anything more.

“Hey, careful,” Steve murmured soothingly, running his hand through the brunet’s unkempt locks. “Banner said you’d open the wounds again if you don’t watch it.” But he held onto Bucky just as tightly, contradicting the words. Bucky had come so far since he had first moved into the Avengers tower. Months ago, waking up from surgery would have disoriented the ex-assassin enough that he’d be throwing punches the second he was awake, stare cold and unreadable and mistrusting, but now Steve saw nothing but worry and comfort in the man’s gaze.

Bucky ignored Steve’s statement entirely, looking down at the dark circles under the blond’s pale eyes. “I knew it. You still haven’t let the doctors look at you, you fuckin’ punk,” Bucky said, voice gruff with sleep. It would have been a question if they didn’t both know Bucky was right. “Told them you wouldn't, and damn if I wasn't right. I can feel the blood through this shitty hospital gown. Go sit down.”

Steve rolled his eyes but complied, dragging Bucky over to a chair with him. If that was the only way he could get the brunet to rest his body, he’d gladly take it for himself too. Only Helen remained in the room with them, and the blond had to roll his eyes as Bucky’s belligerent, “Told you so," and, Well, patch him up, doc,” knowing the tone was aimed at what Bucky perceived to be Steve’s own stupidity. Bucky was still pissed at him for getting shot in the first place, though when Steve saw the smile slide onto the brunet’s features, he knew the anger was now feigned for his benefit.

Steve was glad to see that Bucky was back to be being his true self. A little shit. And the blond, shaking his head in disbelief, couldn’t be happier.

If he held Bucky's hand a little tighter while Helen worked on him, he told himself it was because of the discomfort. But they both would have known better.

* * *

Within the hour, the wound on Steve’s side had been sewn shut, the skin already beginning to knit back together as the local anesthesia began to wear off. The pair had made their way to the rooftop, looking out at the city in the late morning sun.

They were both bone-deep exhausted, but after the day they had been through, Steve enjoyed seeing the sun shining on Bucky’s freshly washed locks enough to not be the first to suggest that they go back inside. With all the blood washed from his face, and the hair swept back into a loose bun, Steve could hardly see the Asset who had come after him in Washington those few years back. There was no storm in his eyes anymore, only a tired sense of calm that overcame the brunet when he was exhausted enough to allow it. Steve only saw his Bucky, the man who he loved more than life itself, who he’d follow to the ends of the earth.

Bucky noticed Steve looking at him, and met his gaze, smiling through a confused look. “What? You’re smilin’, Stevie. What’d you do this time?”

Steve shook his head with a chuckle. “Nothing, Buck.” He wrapped his arms around the brunet’s shoulders, pulling him in close. “I’m just glad you’re ok.” Those seventeen hours had been hell to wait through, not knowing if Banner was going to come through the doors and tell Steve the worst possible outcome had occured, and it made Steve hold onto Bucky all the more tightly.

“Yeah, well, somebody’s gotta stick around to keep your sorry ass outta trouble, and we both know it’s not gonna be Stark,” he said with a grin, meeting Steve’s laugh.

Steve looked into those steely eyes that held nothing but love, and all the strength in the world that came with it. Steve had known for years that he would fight off anyone to keep Bucky safe, and if there was a new threat looming on the horizon, he’d have to up his game if he was going to make sure they wouldn’t get to Bucky. He knew the man could take care of himself – he had done so for seventy years, after all – but the two had discovered early on their lives that you didn’t make it through a war without somebody to watch your six. Even Fury couldn’t deny that they were stronger together than apart, the very definition of a sum being greater than its parts.

Steve leaned down and met Bucky’s lips, earning him a soft sigh.

He would be more than willing to fight to keep Bucky safe, if it meant fighting for the rest of his days. Through hell and beyond, Steve would always fight to make damn sure that Hydra, or anyone else, never got their hands on Bucky again. He’d die trying if he had to. And as he recalled his teammates' kind words as they had each taken in his harried state, Steve knew that he'd never have to face it alone. 

Steve rested his forehead against Bucky's. Before he could talk himself out of it, he said, "I love you, you know."

Bucky pulled back, a huge grin spreading across his face and alighting his features like the setting sun. "I have been waiting seventy years for you to say that, punk." And then he pulled Steve in for another kiss. "I love you too, Stevie."

As the sun sank lower in the sky, the pair watched the shadows dance across New York, holding each other in their arms, overjoyed to be reunited once more.

They were home.

**Author's Note:**

> Have an idea for a fic you want me to write? Let me know in the comments! <3


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